


Who You Really Are Does Matter

by ameliaann



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaann/pseuds/ameliaann
Summary: In which Sherlock's violin says more than he is capable.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Best read while listening to this this beautiful piece: https://www.youtube.com/v/3clFatdstmc?autoplay=1

John's heart is breaking. Shattering, falling to the floor , then knitting itself back together again with each swell of the melody coming from Sherlock's violin. The sound of it crawls inside of him; intertwining itself with the neurons in his brain, wrapping itself around his heart, warming his stomach and bleeding into the tips of his fingers and toes. He can almost feel the instrument in his empty hand; finally grasping some idea of how Sherlock must feel when he plays. Like the violin is an extension of his arm, a medium through which every supressed thought or urge is allowed to breath. And maybe even to be heard, John thinks, if you're listening closely enough.

John's heart is breaking, but he knows that it's only vicariously. It's Sherlock's heart that he's hearing. The heart that no one ever gets to see exists. It's beautiful and tragic and lonely and everything that Sherlock pretends he's not, but John knows there's no way that any of _those_ sounds could be anything but genuine. It's making his chest ache in a way that it never has, and he wonders if this is what Sherlock feels all the time. Distant and closed off, the brilliant detective without a heart that he projects to the rest of the world, but filled with so much earth shattering emotion that he's practically bursting at the well-tended seams. The thought makes John's stomach drop in time with Sherlock's melody, falling into something much more sorrowful.

But then the music swells, Sherlock's hand only moving more gracefully as he enters a crescendo, and John decides then and there that he wants to know exactly which parts of Sherlock are responsible for creating something so beautiful. He wants to know the parts responsible for the sorrow and the joy and the hopelessness and the elation. God help him, he wants to know it all.

John feels as if he should close his eyes, as if this is all too soul-bearing and if he can't stop himself from listening, then he should at least have the decency to not watch, but then Sherlock plays something in a much higher octave, something that feels final, and John's eyes are suddenly incapable of closing. The melody comes to a close with one, last, high note that falls into an echo of the sorrow that he had heard earlier, and Sherlock lets his arm fall to his side.

The absence of the song is much more painful than John could have imagined. He feels as if a door has been closed in his face. Thick walls built around something that he only realized a moment ago he needed to survive. He inhales suddenly, not realizing that he had been holding his breath, and Sherlock's face turns away from the window ever so slightly in acknowledgement.

"I-" John begins, suddenly feeling embarassed of the intrusion. "I'm sorry, I should have-"

"It's quite alright, John," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds as raw as if he'd actually been shouting every emotion that John had felt over the past seven minutes.

"It's hard to prove a point without an audience, anyway."

John is frozen where he is, still feeling a bit dizzy, but Sherlock has turned fully around and has somehow managed to be only mere steps away from him now. John looks at him, feeling his recovery from too many emotions take a couple of steps backwards when he sees them all still swimming in Sherlock's eyes.

"Prove a point?" 

"Yes," Sherlock's voice drops in a near perfect echo of his violin, "Pupils dialated, pulse increased, probably large amounts of dopamine and oxytocin present."

John stares, hoping that Sherlock will continue without any further prompting, since he's fairly certain that he's incapable at this point.

"My point being, who you really are _does_ matter," Sherlock gently rests two fingers on John's neck and can't help but smile as his deduction is confirmed.

"At least to the right people."

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone reading this: Who you really are does matter. Never forget that.


End file.
